


God is the Devil and His Heaven is Hell

by Ruto



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Psychological Torture, Torture, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 10:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruto/pseuds/Ruto
Summary: Before he goes ahead and takes over the universe, Bill amuses himself by making Stan and Ford well and truly suffer.(Reupload of an old fic originally entitled Anima Mala)





	God is the Devil and His Heaven is Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally uploaded to a side account I ended up deleting. I had intended to let all the I'd fics posted there stay deleted, but I decided to make an exception for this... uh, exercise in gruesomeness. It's an exercise in gruesomeness that I'm proud of.
> 
> I implore you to heed the tags, because there is _extremely graphic_ violence in this story; it's bloody and messy and gross. Maybe don't eat while you're reading this...
> 
> If you proceed, I hope you enjoy. And VaporwaveBill, wherever you are, thanks for being my beta.

Before now, Stan and Ford have never experienced the feeling of each passing half-second lasting for an hour, nor a feeling of doom so oppressive and potent. “If death is not imminent, you will wish you were dead” — this is the premonition going through their heads. It won’t be long before the kids are in Bill Cipher’s clutches; it’s inevitable. They’re only children. What can they do against this demon, this abomination?

 

Stan hates himself, but that’s nothing new, and Ford is in despair, his desperate mind willing to sacrifice the world and more if it would bring Dipper and Mabel back safely. They don’t deserve to die — and not like this. Not at __his__  hands.

 

If the children die, the fault will lie with both of them, and each will blame himself the most.

 

The clothing swap trick is the only card they have up their sleeve, the only thing that could possibly make this sick, nightmarish ordeal end in anything other than a worst-case scenario.

 

But they don’t get the chance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“CHANGE OF PLANS,” is what Bill Cipher says as his monstrous, toothy form crawls back to the blue pyramid cage. The children are not with him. This is either a good thing or a very, very bad thing.

 

Stan is the first to find his voice. “Where are the kids?!” he demands, striking an angry fist against the the cage.

 

“DYING HORRIBLY, I HOPE,” says Bill.

 

“You don’t know,” says Ford, allowing himself some cautious relief and a wave of pride directed at the children. “They outsmarted you.”

 

“LAUGH IT UP, SIXER,” says Bill in his deep, distorted voice, scrambling dangerously close to their prison. “I CAME UP WITH AN ALTERNATIVE TO VAPORIZING THE LITTLE BRATS IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES.”

 

The mere thought of that happening instills a bone-deep sense of dread in the twins, Ford especially. On the other side of the portal, he bore witness to vaporization on more than one occasion. The image of a person being torn apart molecule by molecule is one that he's never been able to forget. It's terrifying.

 

The only consolation is that, provided Dipper and Mabel don’t come bursting into the room, they won’t suffer this fate.

 

“Oh yeah?” Stan asks. He sounds challenging, refusing to betray the sense of terror that shakes him to his core.

 

“YEAH,” says Bill. “I’M GONNA EAT ONE OF YOU AND MAKE THE OTHER ONE WATCH.”

 

Stan and Ford are at an absolute loss for words. Ford’s face is screwed up in disgusted horror and Stan’s mouth is agape.

 

“I KNOW, IT’S GREAT,” Bill continues. “SEE, I COULD USE A SNACK, AND ALL THAT FLESHMEAT PACKED ONTO YOUR HUMAN CALCIUM STICKS IS FILLED WITH IMPORTANT VITAMINS AND MINERALS THAT MY NEW 3D FORM NEEDS. BUT WHO SHOULD IT BE...?”

 

Bill briefly evaluates the two of them before bursting out into hellish laughter.

 

“JUST KIDDING. WHEN I SAID ONE OF YOU, I MEANT STANLEY. FEEL SPECIAL, PAL, YOU’RE GETTING THE DELUXE DIGESTION TREATMENT.”

 

“What?!” Stan asks, aghast. “You can’t _ _eat__ me!”

 

“WATCH ME,” says Bill.

 

Ford casts a protective arm across his brother’s front, scowling viciously. In this moment, he is not merely Ford the researcher; he is Ford, the man wanted as a criminal all across the multiverse, who had what it took to survive in every environment he landed in, who came so, so close to killing Bill Cipher himself.

 

For all their spats and long-held grudges, Stan is his brother, who moments ago was prepared to erase the very essence of himself to save the universe.

 

Bill will __not__  touch him.

 

“Try it and I’ll tear you limb from limb,” Ford snarls.

 

“YOU’RE ADORABLE, FORDSY,” Bill cackles. “BUT THIS IS A STORY WHERE THE VILLAIN WINS.”

 

Bill snaps the fingers on one of his many hands and the top of the blue pyramid cage opens up just enough for him to levitate Stan up into the air, out from the top, and into his firm grasp. Ford, meanwhile, is bound tightly with glowing red rope, given no choice but to face the impending grotesquery.

 

“AND DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT CLOSING YOUR EYES,” Bill says. “OR I’LL HAVE THOSE ROPES CHOKE YOU.”

 

One of the ropes slithers in a loop around his neck.

 

“Son of a bitch,” growls Ford.

 

“Put me down, you pyramid freak!” Stan exclaims, writhing in Bill’s unforgiving grasp. “What the fresh heck is wrong with you?”

 

“YOU CAN’T EVEN SWEAR,” Bill says, more cruel laughter following. “YOU SPENT TOO MUCH TIME AROUND THOSE KIDS. SHAME YOU DIDN’T GET TO GIVE THEM A PROPER ****FAREWELL****.” He drags his drooling tongue across what passes for the lips of one of his two mouths, sharp yellow teeth gleaming.

 

“Unhand him!” Ford roars, panic beginning to well up in his chest.

 

“TELL ME HOW TO BREAK THE BUBBLE AND I’LL THINK ABOUT IT,” Bill says.

 

“No!” Stan exclaims immediately, continuing to struggle. “It’s not worth it, Ford!”

 

 **_**_I’m_ ** _ ** __not worth it, Ford._ _

 

Ford’s words are caught in his throat.

 

“I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY,” says Bill. “I’M GETTING HUNGRY.”

 

“The—the kids,” Ford stammers, bravado melting like ice in the heat. “The kids and Stanley. Spare them and... I’ll tell you.”

 

The kids are safe for now, but for how much longer? They can’t evade Bill forever, not when even grown adults couldn’t keep themselves safe from him.

 

Stan wants to protest. He really does.

 

...But the _ _kids.__

__

Maybe in the grand scheme of things, Mabel and Dipper’s lives don’t outweigh those of everyone else in the entire universe. But right now, right in this single moment, to Stan and Ford, they __do.__  They __are__  their universe.

 

 _ _Besides__ , Ford tells himself. _ _It’s only a matter of time before he figures it out on his own.__

__

Bill isn’t stupid. He will find a way to break the bubble. It may take a few millennia, but it will happen. It’s inevitable.

 

So if the world will end whether or not he’s the one who gives Bill the answer he’s been looking for, what’s wrong with saving the few people he can?

 

He might be rationalizing. He’s not sure he has it in him to care.

 

“YOU KNOW WHAT? I’LL THROW YOU A BONE,” says Bill. “IT’S A ****DEAL****.”

 

What happens next seems to take both an eternity and no time at all.

 

Bill, with a helpless Stan still in his grasp, opens up the pyramid cage. He loosens some of the glowing ropes binding Ford so that one of his arms is free.

 

Blue fire burns as they shake hands.

 

Ford slumps to his knees as Bill invades his mind. Stan, trapped in Bill’s stony grip, can do nothing, nothing at all for his brother. His heart is in his throat.

 

And then Bill’s monstrous form returns to flesh and brick, red and gold, and Ford blinks slowly as consciousness returns to him.

 

The room echoes with the devil’s laughter.

 

“Stanford!” Stan calls. “Say somethin’!”

 

Before Ford can so much as move or even speak, his bindings tighten again, crushingly strong. He wonders if it’s enough to snap his bones.

 

“YOU’RE A REAL GEM, FORDSY,” says Bill. “I LOVE WHEN YOU COOPERATE WITH ME. IT’S JUST LIKE OLD TIMES! DON’TCHA FEEL ****NOSTALGIC****?”

 

Ford has saved Stan. He’s saved the kids.

 

And he’s personally doomed this universe. There is no forgiveness for a crime of this magnitude.

 

That’s fine.

 

He’s saved Stan. He’s saved the kids.

 

Hasn’t he?

 

He’ll gladly shoulder his guilt into death and beyond, as he should. It is his personal price to pay.

 

“I gave you what you wanted,” says Ford darkly, somehow looking ten years older than he did but a moment ago, the wrinkles in his face more pronounced than ever before. “Put Stanley down.”

 

“...I DON’T THINK SO, IQ,” Bill says, waving Stan back and forth as if he were a doll.

 

“Why not?!” Stan demands, thrashing. “And quit that! I’m gonna hurl!”

 

Dread seizes Ford and refuses to let go. His mind races; was there something he missed?

 

“You have to spare him,” Ford insists. “We shook on it, Cipher.”

 

Bill is laughing once more.

 

Why is he laughing?

 

What Ford did miss?

 

“I ****AM****  SPARING HIM. LOOK AT ME NOT HURTING HIM,” says Bill, and he stills his glowing hand. If Ford’s heart is pounding, Stan’s has crashed through his rib cage. There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.

 

So what’s the catch?

 

“THING IS, YOU DIDN’T SAY HOW ** **LONG**** I HAD TO SPARE HIM.”

 

Stan’s face contorts in horror; a scream tears out of Ford’s throat.

 

“ _ _STANLEY__ _ _—__!”

 

Ford throws his useless, bound body at the monster and is yanked back by the rope around his throat as Bill lifts Stan to his topmost mouth and tears a chunk of out Stan’s thigh, exposing muscle and bone. A waterfall of blood pours from the gaping wound. Bill chews the torn flesh and swallows, though where the matter actually goes is a mystery.

 

“TASTY,” says Bill. “I THINK I LIKE HUMAN MEAT.”

 

Stan is in so much pain he can’t even cry out. He just makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat as tears spring to his eyes.

 

“What more do you ****want****?!” Ford exclaims, in equal parts outraged and terrified. “I __gave__  you what you asked of me!”

 

“YOU SURE DID, SIXER. YOU SURE DID,” Bill says, blood staining one of his black tongues. “AND NOW I’M GONNA RIP YOUR NO-GOOD BROTHER LIMB FROM LIMB AS THANKS.”

 

“Take __me__! __I’m__  the one who tried to kill you!” Ford shouts. “Stanley’s done __nothing__  to you!”

 

“STANLEY WAS ALWAYS HOLDING YOU BACK, WASN’T HE?” Bill asks. “I’M DOING YOU A FAVOR.”

 

“I don’t want this,” Ford says desperately, shaking his head. “I don’t — how could I __possibly__  want this?”

 

Bill laps up the blood running down Stan’s leg. “NAH, YOU’RE RIGHT, YOU DON’T WANT THIS. AND THAT’S EXACTLY WHY I’M DOING IT! CONSIDER IT REVENGE,” he says.

 

Bill rakes his teeth down Stan’s leg, slicing open the fabric of his pants and leaving bloody lacerations in his wake, until he reaches one of his feet. He crunches down on his ankle and tears Stan’s foot off, thrashing like a wolf snapping the neck of a rabbit.

 

Stan’s voice returns all at once in a gut-wrenching cry of agony. He can’t speak. He can’t ask for help. He can’t beg for Ford to come and save him. All he can do is scream until his throat goes raw.

 

Bill clamps his teeth around Stan’s other ankle and rips that foot off too, swallowing it. Blood gushes from the wound. A red puddle pools beneath the two of them.

 

Stan cries in earnest, harder than he ever has before in his life. He’s bawling like a child.

 

It’s as if a thousand needles have punctured Ford’s heart, and coming soon are a thousand more.

 

“Stop it!” Ford bellows. “For God’s sake, stop!”

 

“THE ONLY GOD HERE IS ****ME****.”

 

“S-Stanford,” Stan manages to choke out in a quiet, strained voice, his eyes shiny and red as they look into Ford’s own.

 

“Stanley!” Ford cries. “I’m here, Stanley! It’s — it’s all right! You’ll be all right!”

 

Someone will save him. Someone has to save him. The kids — they survived encountering Bill before, didn’t they? Maybe — maybe they could...

 

“DON’T CRY, FORDSY,” says Bill. “I MEAN, THIS USELESS LUMP NEVER EVEN PROVED HIS WORTH TO YOU, NOW DID HE? WHAT’S IT MATTER IF HE DIES?”

 

“NO!” Ford shouts. “No, no, no, I didn’t mean that, I — I should never have said something so —”

 

“TRUE,” Bill finishes for him.

 

Stan is watching Ford with hurt and confusion stark on his face. Bill rips a patch of flesh off of his leg and he gives a keening wail.

 

“I’m sorry, Stanley, I’m so sorry,” Ford babbles. He’s never felt guilt so pure and damning in his life. “You’re my brother and I — I love you.”

 

“YOU’RE SUFFOCATING,” Bill says, holding Stan close to his face, staring him in the eye, and Ford thinks himself a monster.

 

“Don’t listen to him,” he begs of Stan. “He wants to break you emotionally as well as physically!”

 

Stan says nothing, either because he cannot or he will not.

 

Bill’s razor-sharp teeth rake more skin from Stan’s leg before he takes it in his mouth up to the knee and bites down, brick meeting bulky incisors. Ford hears a snap like a branch underfoot and cringes.

 

Stan continues to sob.

 

“MMM. CRUNCHY!” Bill says, flecks of bone material dropping from his maw. “AT LEAST YOU TASTE GOOD. YOU’RE NOT GOOD FOR MUCH ** **ELSE****.”

 

“I know,” Stan says, perhaps to no one at all, in a voice so soft that Ford struggles to hear him. Then, he wishes he didn’t. Is this what Stan thinks of himself, deep down?

 

...Is this what Ford has done to him?

 

“You were always at my side, Stanley!” Ford says, trying and failing to drag himself closer to Bill and his brother. “Always!" The magic ropes yank him back so hard his head smacks against the floor. He struggles to return to his kneeling position without the use of his arms.

 

“UNTIL HE PUSHED YOU INTO THE PORTAL,” Bill taunts.

 

“Shut your fucking _ _mouth__ , demon!” Ford snarls. He’s in no position to be talking back to Bill and he doesn‘t even care. “That doesn’t matter __now__! Besides, the portal was my own foolish mistake! As was trusting a bastard like you!”

 

As was shattering Stanley’s hopes, watching the joy drain from his face.

 

— _ _the first worthwhile thing in your life__ —

__

Look what Ford has done to him.

 

“BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF, STANFORD. DEEP DOWN, YOU’RE STILL MAD ABOUT BACKUPSMORE.”

 

Ford bares his teeth. “How could I __possibly__  be angry at Stanley when you’re **_**_torturing him_**_**?!” he asks, bordering on hysteria. “Of all the dimensions I’ve ever stepped foot in, you are by far the cruelest, most despicable __monster__  I have ever had the misfortune of encountering!”

 

“YOU’RE TOO KIND,” Bill says, and takes Stan’s other leg into his mouth.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Ford whispers.

 

Crunch.

 

Rip.

 

Gulp.

 

Scream, scream, scream, so much screaming, it doesn’t stop. It’s the most painful sound to have ever reached Ford’s ears.

 

“I’ll kill you!” Ford shouts, voice thick, adrenaline pulsing through his body. “I’ll end your miserable existence with my own two hands! Mark my words, Cipher!”

 

“GOOD LUCK WITH THAT, SIXER,” Bill says.

 

Stan is hanging limp; one leg halved, the other gone entirely.

 

Even so, he slurs, “Don’ call ‘m that.”

 

“SPEAK UP, PAL,” Bill says.

 

“Said don’ call ‘im Sixer,” Stan continues. “‘S __my__  name I gave ‘im.” Stan’s aura emanates all the defiance his battered body can muster. Impending death itself is not enough to keep him from speaking his mind.

 

“Stanley,” says Ford, more terrified for Stan than he could ever express. “Stanley, no.”

 

Stan refuses to listen.

 

“So shut — shut up, y’ sonuva... son’va bitch.”

 

And Stan, helpless, agonized, bleeding out — spits right in Bill’s face.

 

It’s satisfying as hell. He smirks despite the tears streaking down his face.

 

Nowhere in the endless vastness of the universe has Ford has ever met a man so brave as Stanley Pines.

 

He loves him so much, he realizes, and he’s going to lose him.

 

Bill trembles. He squeezes Stan so tightly that Stan struggles to breathe.

 

“JUST WHO... DO YOU THINK... __YOU’RE__   ** _ ** _TALKING TO_**_**?”

 

Bill brings Stan’s lower torso into his mouth, crushing his lower torso between the heavy bricks above and the sharp teeth below which easily puncture the skin there. Blood spurts from the fresh wounds. Flesh stretches and tears apart as Bill yanks the rest of Stan’s body away in a single ruthless motion. Intestines spill from the remaining half of Stan’s body like uncoiling ropes.

 

But Stan is not dead. Through some sick magic of Bill’s, Stan is not granted even the mercy of death.

 

“Oh god,” Stan whimpers, snot accompanying the wetness on his face. “Oh god oh god oh god oh god Stanford, oh god I can't do this please—”

 

“I’m here,” Ford says. “Stanley, listen to me, I’m here, look at me, keep your eyes on me, I’m right — right... here...” His voice cracks and he sobs like a broken man. The tears flow in a ceaseless stream and for all the world Ford wishes he were in Stan’s place.

 

This is his fault. He deserves to be the one who’s punished for it.

 

Not Stan.

 

One of Bill’s tongues scoops up the intestines and despite lacking lips, he sucks them up like thick, misshapen noodles.

 

Stan’s suffering is so intense his body struggles to even process it; his pain receptors are on overload. A human body should not be able to remain conscious during torture of this unprecedented magnitude. Bill Cipher is a being worse than any devil could ever hope to be.

 

But Stan knows of a scenario even more horrifying for him to consider than his own present reality of having been bisected alive.

 

It’s the possibility that Ford, that the _ _kids__ , may share this same fate.

 

Stan would gladly let Bill maul him, rip him limb from limb, devour his eyes and shatter his bones to dust if it meant avoiding that.

 

“Deal...” Stan says, barely able to speak. “Make d-deal...”

 

“OH, WHAT’S THIS?” Bill asks, voice garbled by his mouthful of intestine. “WANT FORDSY TO TRADE PLACES WITH YOU?”

 

The pain Stan feels equals the hatred in his veins.

 

“Spare Ford ‘n kids... forever. No... tricks.” Every few words are punctuated by a painful inhale.

 

“AND WHAT DO I GET OUT OF THIS, HM?” Bill asks. “YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH LEFT TO GIVE.”

 

He doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t. There is nothing he can offer that Bill cannot already take from him of his own volition.

 

He knows there’s no con he can pull that can save everyone, no impressive last minute gambit.

 

He knows that.

 

But he had to __try__ , however useless his effort may have been.

 

“I THOUGHT SO,” says Bill. “SEE, STANFORD, I TOLD YOU HE WASN’T GOOD FOR ANYTHING.” He sucks up the last of the large intestines — “OUTSIDE OF HIS ZESTY FLAVOR. HA!” — and moves on to the small ones. Stan shudders violently, snot intermingling with his cascading tears. He’s being unraveled, literally and figuratively. He’s already lost all the blood an adult human could stand to lose. He’s dizzy and he want to vomit, but he’s not even sure if his stomach is intact at this point.

 

“CIPHER!” Ford howls, again pushing himself to his feet and again being slammed back down, face-first this time, hard enough to chip one of his teeth.

 

“THAT’S THE NAME, DON’T WEAR IT OUT,” Bill says.

 

“I would torture you __myself__ had I the chance! You’re beyond redemption! You deserve no mercy! I hope you die a death ten thousand times more miserable than his!”

 

“WHO SAYS I’M GONNA KILL HIM AT THE END?” Bill asks.

 

Ford doesn’t want Stan to die. He really and truly does not want his brother to die.

 

But making him live one second longer in this state would be downright evil.

 

“You’re sick,” Ford spits. “I __despise__  you! And I... Stanley, I am so __sorry.__ ” He hangs his head, defeated. “You’re suffering at this lunatic’s hands because I summoned him like a damn __fool__ , and I cannot _ _tell__ you how sorry I am. If you can’t forgive me, I understand. I don’t deserve it.”

 

He will never forgive himself.

 

Never, for as long as he lives. Not when he brought this hell upon his own twin brother.

 

“ARE YOUR PHDS IN SCREWING UP IRREPARABLY, FORDSY?” Bill asks. “BECAUSE YOU’RE A REAL GENIUS AT IT.”

 

Ford can’t protest that.

 

“I know,” he croaks bitterly. “But the universe and Stanley shouldn’t have to pay for my stupidity!”

 

“I DUNNO HOW YOU HAVEN’T FIGURED IT OUT YET, BUDDY, BUT LIFE AIN’T FAIR. EVERYONE’S A PUPPET AND THE PLAYWRIGHT IS A JERK.”

 

Bill grabs the string of intestines and severs off a portion with his teeth, tossing the meat into a bloody heap in front of Ford.

 

“HERE’S A SNACK TO EASE THE STING OF YOUR IMPENDING EXISTENTIAL CRISIS. IT’S CHEWY! THE INTESTINES, NOT THE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS.”

 

Ford recoils at his “snack”, glossy and wet, shaking his head mutely.

 

“NOW’S NOT THE TIME TO GET SQUEAMISH, KIDDO,” Bill chides. “BECAUSE I’VE GOT AN OFFER YOU CAN’T REFUSE.”

 

Ford narrows his eyes.

 

“I’LL GRANT YOUR BROTHER SOME MERCY IF YOU DO IT,” Bill says.

 

As terrified as he is that Bill will find a way to twist those words into something horrifying... there’s no question that he __has__  to take the chance. For Stan.

 

“Shake on it,” Ford says.

 

“WHAT? CAN’T TAKE ME AT MY WORD?” Bill says with a sneer in his voice.

 

“Shake my goddamn hand!” Ford half-snaps, half-begs.

 

“EASY THERE, SIXER. THINK ABOUT YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE.”

 

Once again, Ford’s bindings loosen up just enough he can free one arm.

 

“THE SIGHT OF YOUR FREAKISH HANDS ALWAYS WARMS MY NONEXISTENT HEART,” Bill says, and Ford flushes angrily. “NOT EVERYBODY IS BLESSED WITH BLATANTLY VISIBLE DEFORMITIES. YOU SHOULD FEEL SPECIAL. YOU ALWAYS ****WANTED****  TO BE SPECIAL, DIDN’T YOU?”

 

“Bill,” Ford grinds out, refusing to take the bait. “The deal.”

 

“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, HOLD YOUR FOUR LEGGED NEIGHING UNGULATES,” Bill says, and extends one of his many hands. It burns an ethereal vivid blue against the ominous red light of the room. Ford isn’t sure he knows what he’s getting into when he reaches out to shake Bill’s hand, only that he has no other choice.

 

“D-don’t,” Stan says, barely able to be heard. “Ford, you don’t... have t’...”

 

Everything is pain, blinding, all-encompassing, suffocating pain. Stan wants to pass out but Bill’s sick magic keeps him conscious.

 

“I have to do this,” Ford says, willing that his voice not tremble and the fear not show. “I have to do this for you, Stanley.”

 

“N-no,” breathes Stan, but Ford takes Bill’s hand and shakes it.

 

“EAT UP,” Bill says, gesturing at the intestines on the floor and undoing the last of the bindings on Ford’s arms.

 

Ford has eaten many strange things over the course of his life. Human body parts have never been one of them. He’s not ready for this, and he will never be ready for this.

 

Even so, he reaches out with violently shaking hands and picks up the slippery intestines, staring at them in disgust. It’s bad enough that they’re someone’s innards — it’s so, so much worse that they’re __Stan’s.__  Ford has forced down nausea this entire time thus far; this might be the thing that makes him vomit for real.

 

“WHAT’RE YOU WAITING FOR?” Bill asks. “ISN’T STAN COUNTING ON YOU?”

 

Yes. He is. So Ford brings the hunk of intestine to his mouth, teeth grazing and slipping off of the wet surface.

 

“GET IT TOGETHER, IQ,” Bill says.

 

Ford inhales and sinks his teeth firmly into the hunk of intestine. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tears into it. He starts gagging as soon as the pinkish flesh touches his tongue, the taste indescribably vile, something a human was never meant to know. He powers through, chewing the piece up and swallowing it with great effort. Pitiful tears leak from his eyes all the while.

 

Stan watches on, unable to believe what he’s seeing. The fate he himself is suffering is a thing he can bring himself to comprehend — some part of him always knew he’d die horribly, if perhaps not at the hands of a demon — but for __Ford__  to be tortured like this? No, that doesn’t compute in the least.

 

“C’mon... bro... no...”

 

Don’t do this to yourself, he wants to say.

 

I’m sorry, he wants to say.

  
And he wants to know, why were they born into a world so cruel?

 

“There,” Ford practically spits. “I ate some.”

 

“AH AH AH, THAT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH,” Bill says, wagging a finger. “YOU HAVE TO EAT THE ****WHOLE THING.**** ”

 

Ford blanches.

 

“Twisted... bastard,” Stan says.

 

“I KNOW I AM, ISN’T IT GREAT?” Bill replies. “SICKEST MIND THIS UNIVERSE HAS TO OFFER, RIGHT HERE, BABY!”

 

“I want you dead,” Ford says, and bites back into the bloody, severed organ. It’s squishy. He has no idea if his stomach will even agree to digest this.

 

“YOU AND A MILLION OTHER PEOPLE,” Bill says. “BUT YOU’RE NOT THE ONE-OF-A-KIND-HERO WHO’S GOING TO KILL ME WHERE EVERYBODY ELSE FAILED. SEE, YOU’RE NOT ****SPECIAL**** , STANFORD. ****YOU NEVER WERE.**** ”

 

This is what his Muse always thought of him. Bill is picking at an ugly scab that hasn’t healed in all these years. Ford shouldn’t be surprised that the words hurt.

 

Now, however, is not the time to stew in his own wounds. He recalls a distant memory of his father reminding the two of them that they must clear their plates or they wouldn’t be allowed to leave the table. It strikes him as a little bit like this situation and the observation is almost-but-not-quite enough to put a wry smile on Ford’s face.

 

Frankly, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to smile ever again.

  
Besides nausea, guilt churns in his gut as he forces himself to eat the intestine. It’s bad enough that he’s engaging in cannibalism; that it’s his own twin brother’s flesh makes it a thousand times worse. This is wrong in every way. His skin is crawling, the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up. He can’t take back the sin he’s committing, can’t make this any less depraved than it is.

 

That’s the paradox. He’s desecrating his brother’s flesh in order to maybe ensure that some small scraps of mercy are thrown his way.

 

It could be irrational to feel guilty right now. This is, unfortunately, his best course of action. The most moral thing to do. Not doing all he can to aid Stan would be the greatest crime. It’s just... it’s _ _cannibalism.__  And some part of his DNA is hardwired to tell him how fucked up it is to eat another human being, never mind someone he shared a womb and a childhood with.

 

Ford eats as fast as he can for Stan’s sake and his own, praying he doesn’t vomit. He shudders to think of what Bill would suggest if he did. It’s been made abundantly clear that there is no low he will refuse to stoop to.

 

Blood drips from his mouth as he says, “I’m finished. Happy now, you demented freak?”

  
Freak. The word hurts less when he’s wielding it against someone else. Who’s the freak now?

 

“ECSTATIC,” Bill replies. “I’M IMPRESSED. DIDN’T THINK YOU COULD DO IT, BUT YOU DID. GOLD STAR FOR STANFORD PINES!” His unoccupied hands burst out into applause. “HE MUST HAVE BEEN DELICIOUS. YOU’RE CRYING TEARS OF JOY!”

 

Ford’s glasses are speckled with teardrops that slid down his eyelashes onto the glass.

 

“Now show him mercy,” Ford demands in a voice that would carry more authority if he weren’t sobbing.

 

“CAN DO, BUCKO,” Bill says, thrusts his teeth into Stan’s stomach, and tears in a swift, sharp motion. “EATING A STOMACH IS KIND OF IRONIC.”

 

“Bill!” Ford shouts, more agonized than surprised. Stan yowls and Ford wants to cover his ears so he doesn’t have to hear such a heart-wrenching noise. He doesn’t want to feel anything at all.

 

(No, that’s not quite it. He wants to be the one who Bill rips apart.)

 

“I DID IT FAST SO IT’D HURT LESS,” Bill explains. “ALRIGHT, THAT TAKES CARE OF MY END OF THE DEAL!” A pair of hands wipe themselves on one another.

 

“You know that’s not what I meant!” Ford says desperately.

 

“EVERYTHING’S OPEN TO INTERPRETATION,” says Bill. “YOU’RE A SMART GUY, YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO LEAVE LOOPHOLES AS GAPING AS THE HOLE IN YOUR BROTHER’S TORSO.”

 

Hatred and despair vie for the position of being the most predominant emotion Ford is feeling. He’s never been so angry or despondent in his life. If he could kill Bill Cipher right this second he would mutilate his goddamn worthless corpse. The urge for violence pulses through him. And something deeper than sadness or grief has wrapped itself around him like a cocoon from which he cannot escape.

 

* * *

 

 The human spirit has a remarkable capacity for suffering.

 

Stan is becoming intimately familiar with this capacity. He kind of wishes it were less. A lot less. That he’s sane and capable of rational thought is a shock. Wait. __Is__  he sane? Can he be sure? For all he knows he’s deluding himself into thinking the sheer degree of pain hasn’t made his brain shatter. For now, he will assume he is still sane.

  
Ford can’t be sane, though, actually going through with eating his intestines. And he did it for him.

 

Why?

 

Why would Ford do something like that for him? He’s the dumbass who broke the science project, the object of his brother’s resentment, the man who shoved said brother into another dimension, the fool who turned on the portal, the failure of a grunkle who couldn’t protect the kids. Those poor kids, and god, he loves them so much it hurts. Are they alive? What if the other monsters got to them? They’re scrappy as hell, they’re probably fine.

 

Hopefully fine. Because you know...

 

Everybody’s luck runs out someday.

 

No, no, no, he doesn’t want to think of anything happening to the kids. He’ll kill Bill Cipher if anything has. He doesn’t know how, but he will. He’ll find a way. He and Ford can wreck this damned demon together, give him a good ol’ Pines punch right in the face and split him apart, a thousand pieces never to be reassembled.

 

Randomly, Stan thinks that intestines are pretty gross looking. Wow. Can’t believe he had that wrinkly junk inside of him. Ha. Wrinkly, just like him. Do they wrinkle more with age?

 

His face sure is wet.

 

So is Ford’s.

 

Stan’s fraying mind wants to focus on anything other than the molten-hot pain.

 

“WHAT NEXT?” Bill asks contemplatively. “LIVER? HEART? LUNGS? WHADDAYA THINK, STANFORD?”

 

“Just get this over with,” Ford says, burying his head in his hands, muffling his sobs.

 

“YOU’RE NO FUN,” Bill says with what would be a pout if his countenance were capable of displaying one. “LIVE A LITTLE.” He shakes the unmoving Stan back and forth.

 

“This is what you call __living__?!” Ford asks. “Ending the world, destroying lives in the cruelest ways you can think of?!”

 

“PRETTY MUCH, YEAH,” Bill says. “BUT HEY, DON’T ACT LIKE YOU’RE ****BLAMELESS**** , IQ. I WOULDN’T BE HERE IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOUR ****GRACIOUS HELP****.”

 

“That’s why I should be the one you kill,” Ford whispers.

 

“THAT’D BE A KINDNESS,” says Bill. “I DON’T DEAL IN KINDNESS.”

 

Ford clutches the hair on his head so hard he threatens to rip it out in bloody chunks, entire body heaving with the force of his bawling.

 

“DON’T HIDE YOUR EYES NOW. YOU’VE GOTTA SEE THIS,” Bill says, holding Stan up high in the air. Ford, despite the tightly coiled knot in his stomach, lifts his head.

 

Bill slams Stan into the ground chest-first with a force powerful enough to shatter his rib cage on impact.

 

Stan isn’t entirely clear on what happened. Only that he was suddenly moving very quickly and the pain intensified again. When is it going to stop intensifying? Will it never end? Is this to be his eternity?

 

A few cons and some shoplifting here and there don’t really merit this kind of punishment, he thinks. Talk about being punishing and vindictive.

 

Can he go back to Colombia, please? That was nicer. Nobody __ate__  his guts out there. They just hated ‘em.

 

“OHOHO, I LOVE THE SOUND OF BONES SNAPPING,” Bill says. “MUSIC TO MY EARS.”

 

Ford can’t take this. He just cannot.

 

But it’s not about him.

 

“Stanley,”he says. “Can you hear me?”

 

“‘m not deaf yet,” Stan rasps. His bone fragments litter the heavily blood-stained floor.

 

“I... I love you,” stammers Ford, the words tumbling from his lips.

 

Him ever holding a grudge against Stan feels like little more than a distant bad dream.

 

“Oh,” says Stan, and he pauses. Of all the things he’d expected to hear from his brother after the portal incident, that was the absolute last. It feels good. Like it’s a tiny bit of salve for his wounds aplenty, physical and emotional. “...Love you... too.”

 

“And I’m sorry,” Ford says. “I’m sorry for the way things turned out.”

 

He’s never been sorrier for anything before in his life.

 

“...Yeah,” says Stan, slipping into a sorrowful smile and close to simply mouthing his words as he adds, “Me... too.”

 

“HOW ****TOUCHING**** ,” Bill chimes in. “THIS CUTE BONDING MOMENT YOU’RE HAVING. I’M TEARING UP. BOO HOO. I NEED A TISSUE. PREFERABLY MADE OF A HUMAN PELT. MAYBE SEVERAL STITCHED TOGETHER.”

 

Ford’s lips curl into a snarl. “For once in your life, Cipher, shut your _ _mouth.__ ”

 

“I USUALLY DON’T HAVE ONE," Bill says. “ANYWAY, YOU FIRST.” The binding around Ford’s neck slams his head into the floor again.

 

“S...stop,” Stan says. “You pointy... one-eyed...”

 

“DID YOU SAY ‘DO IT AGAIN?’” Bill asks, and Ford is lifted up by his neck, momentarily choking him, and then his head is forced into the ground again. As he lifts himself back up — Bill didn’t bother to re-bind his hands — angry red welts bloom on his head. He considers the possibility that this may concuss him, but ha. If it does, what does it matter?

 

He’s fucked anyway.

 

“Nobody lays... lays... a h-hand on my bro,” Stan says.

 

“ ** **WATCH ME**** ,” Bill says. He crawls toward Ford and punches him square in the jaw, knocking him backward. Blood squirts from his nose.  
  
Ford just pulls himself back to his knees once again without saying a word. It hurts like hell, twice as much as it normally would thanks to the electroshock torture he endured, but he deserves it, so what can he say?

 

Some deeply traumatized part of himself wants to egg Bill on.

 

“YOU’RE SO CUTE WHEN YOU’RE BLEEDING FROM ANY GIVEN ORIFICE,” says Bill, rubbing Ford’s cheek with his finger.

 

“I’m... th’ only one who... get t’ make f-uh-un of...” Stan finishes the sentence with a prolonged whine. So much pain. Too much pain. Is this real? Is this a nightmare? A nightmare that never ends? He wants to wake up in his bed. The familiar aches and pains of old age would be a blessing compared to this barbarity. Let him wake up and have his whole family back, safe and sound.

 

Give him his broken bones back. Give him the rest of his body back.

 

Because right now it really really really hurts.

 

He can’t charm or lie his way out of this situation.

 

He’s trapped.

 

They’re all trapped.

 

They’re all as good as dead. Everyone he’s ever hoodwinked, everyone he’s ever loved.

 

And that’s a thought more horrifying than the brain is capable of fully grasping.

 

“I THINK I’M GONNA GO FOR...” Bill raises Stan’s torso close to his one eye. “...LIVER!”

 

He leans in and, thanks to the shattered rib cage, is given easy access to the liver, which he licks with his tongue before yanking it out of Stan’s torso. Stan inhales a shuddering breath. The scream that follows is raw and fractured, his voice faltering from overuse.

 

Ford wants to hold his brother. Hug him, comfort him. Pay him back for all the reassurance Stan gave him when they were children. Make amends for letting their father kick him out at such a young age, apologize for burning him, stitch him back together so he can be happy again.

 

Sail around the world like they always dreamed.

 

Everything they can never have crashes into Ford all at once with devastating force. He covers his mouth with his hands and grieves, wetness overflowing from his eyes, puffy and sore.

“THE WATERWORKS JUST DON’T STOP WITH YOU TWO,” Bill comments. “YOU’LL DEHYDRATE AT THIS RATE. SO GO AHEAD, BE MY GUEST! KEEP THE TEARS A-COMIN’! I’D LOVE TO SEE A HUMAN BODY DEHYDRATE IN REAL TIME!”

 

“I’mma... deck you...” says Stan.

 

“YOU KNOW, YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL YOU’RE STILL CAPABLE OF SPEECH,” says Bill. “YOU CAN THANK MY MAGIC FOR THAT. I’D SHUT YOU UP, BUT THE EXPRESSIONS ON YOUR BROTHER’S FACE WHENEVER YOU WHEEZE OUT A WORD OR TWO ARE TO DIE FOR.”

 

“Gonna... you’re gonna get yours,” Stan continues, determined to speak his mind. “Someday. Guarantee it.”

 

“KARMA’S NOT REAL,” says Bill. “OR DO YOU NEED THE ‘LIFE IS UNFAIR’ SPEECH TOO?”

 

“You’d... just... bore me to death... faster ‘n the whole... dis... disrember... dismembering thing...”

 

“YOU’VE GOT A LOT OF SASS FOR A MAN IN SUCH A PRECARIOUS POSITION,” says Bill. “OR MAYBE YOU’VE REALIZED YOU’VE GOT NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE?”

 

If death is inevitable, Stan doesn’t need to be afraid. He can brace himself. Accept it. Stan knows this.

 

Bill, too, knows this.

 

“I KNOW JUST WHAT TO DO WITH YOU,” says Bill. “BUT FIRST...”

 

He snags his bottom teeth beneath Stan’s heart and with a backwards thrust, tears it right out of his chest. He swallows it whole.

 

“A ****HEARTY****  MEAL,” says Bill, and cackles. He nudges Ford’s cheek once again. “HEY, LAUGH WITH ME. IT’S FUNNY. I’M HILARIOUS.”

 

Ford is unresponsive. He keeps his hands clamped over his mouth. The tears run and run and run down his reddened face.

 

“HEY, YOU DON’T GET TO HAVE A COMPLETE MENTAL BREAKDOWN YET.” Bill snaps his fingers in front of Ford’s face.

 

“How could you?” Ford asks, voice muffled by his hands. “I thought you were my Muse. How could I have fallen for such an obvious ploy? Why did I welcome a demon like you into our world?”

 

“YOU REMEMBER THE STORY OF ****ICARUS**** ,” says Bill. “DON’T YOU?”

 

He hears Fiddleford’s voice in his ears.

 

“YOU WANTED TO KNOW. YOU ****HAD****  TO KNOW, BECAUSE THEN YOU’D BE GREAT, WOULDN’T YOU? THE FREAK WOULD FINALLY SHOW THE WORLD WHAT HE’S MADE OF.” Bill comes dangerously close as he says, “ ** **YOUR WINGS HAVE MELTED, ICARUS.**** ”

 

He has fallen.

 

And now all that’s left is to drown in his tears.

 

Bill sizes up what remains of Stan before he snatches up the left lung, eats it, and then devours the right. The inhuman amount of blood pouring out of Stan can only be the result of Bill’s sadistic magic. Some of the spurting blood sprays onto Stanford, soaking his upper body. Stunned, he shakily runs two fingers down the side of his face and sees the liquid red staining them.

 

This is his brother’s own blood. On him.

 

He clenches his fist and then clasps it with his other hand, drawing them both close to his chest. His entire body shakes uncontrollably.

 

“I’M REALLY PICKING YOU CLEAN, LIKE ONE OF THOSE OMINOUS FEATHERED SCAVENGER DINOSAURS,” Bill says to Stan. “I’M NOT A GUY WHO LIKES TO WASTE PERFECTLY GOOD FOOD.”

 

“My brother isn’t — he isn’t just your __meal!__ ” Ford exclaims.

 

“I BEG TO DIFFER,” Bill says, and he makes sure Ford is watching when he guzzles down the remaining organs in Stan’s body: pancreas, spleen, gallbladder. The front of Stan’s torso is barren, hollow and blood-soaked, a picture of carnage and cruelty.

 

This can’t be his brother, Ford thinks. This shell cannot be Stan.

 

Why does it have to be Stan?

 

“THAT WAS TASTY, BUT I NEED TO CLEANSE MY PALATE,” Bill says.

 

“Enough,” Ford says. “You have done __more__  than enough...!”

 

“NO SUCH THING AS ‘ENOUGH’ IN AN ENDLESS PARTY,” says Bill. “IT’S ALL ABOUT ****MORE****.” He spreads his pairs of arms wide.

 

“No more,” says Ford. “No more!”

 

Ford’s cries go unheard, Bill takes one of Stan’s thick arms into his mouth, up to where the arm socket lies. He brings his mouth down slowly, slowly, until both top and bottom press against Stan’s arm. They press harder and harder, the pressure growing unbearable, and Stan throws his head back, letting out a silent scream as the bones inside begin to splinter and crack before buckling entirely beneath the weight, severing the arm from Stan’s body. Bill gobbles it up with glee.

 

All the horrors Ford saw on the other side of the portal weren’t enough to prepare him for this, bearing witness to his brother’s graphic mutilation.

 

None of the horrors Stan has endured can come close to the hell of right here and right now.

 

“ONE DOWN,” says Bill. “ONE TO GO.”

 

He turns Stan to his opposite side and doesn’t wait this time, bearing all of his weight down on Stan’s remaining arm in a single crushing motion, laughing through his teeth at the tearing of muscle and breaking of bones as he tears it right off Stan’s body. Blood gushes from the stump that’s left, and Bill sticks out his tongues to get a taste.

 

“DEE-LECTABLE,” Bill says, sounding quite satisfied.

 

“Just kill him,” Ford says, though he can barely speak. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, but it is of no comfort.

 

“IT’D BE A GREAT LOAD OFF YOUR SHOULDERS IF THIS LEECH KICKED THE BUCKET, HUH?” asks Bill. “YOU HEAR THAT, STAN?”

 

“You’re __torturing__  him, you son of a bitch!” Ford shouts. “It’s — it’s unconscionable to make him endure this!”

 

__Unforgivable._ _

__

“I LOVE HOW SELF-RIGHTEOUS HUMANS GET WHEN YOU VIOLATE THEIR SACRED MORAL STANDARDS,” Bill says. “IT’S A HOOT.”

 

“Any halfway reasonable being should possess a rudimentary sense of ethics at very least!” Ford says.

 

“HAVEN’T WE ESTABLISHED THAT I’M NOT EVEN REMOTELY REASONABLE?” Bill asks.

 

“...We certainly have,” Ford grits out.

 

“HEY, WANNA GET A BETTER LOOK AT WHAT’S LEFT OF YOUR BROTHER?” Bill asks, and shoves Stan’s body in Ford’s face. Stan is listless, his eyes half-lidded, and his face is soaked in sweat. He looks so old.

 

Despite it all, he cracks a smile meant to be reassuring, and Ford throws himself at his brother. Bill yanks him away before Ford can grab him, and Ford hits the ground, landing on his elbows.

 

“Return my brother to me,” Ford says from his position on the floor, close to a level of despair that would render him incapable of drawing himself back up. “Give him __back.__ ”

 

Bill ruffles Ford’s hair.

 

“I CAN DO THAT JUUUST FOR YOU, FORDSY.”

 

Ford doesn’t want to make a deal that’s only going to be distorted into something worse than he could have ever conceived.

 

Bill doesn’t bother offering. Still, he says, “ ** **TRUST ME.**** ”

 

Ford has never trusted Bill less in his life.

 

There is very little of Stan left. Just his head and a hollowed-out torso with two shoulder stubs on each side. He’s close to unrecognizable.

 

“NOW HOW DO I TAKE CARE OF THESE LEFTOVERS...?” Bill asks himself. “I’LL MUNCH ON ‘EM.”

 

Bill holds Stan flat on his palm and then brings him to his uppermost mouth, casually snacking on his remains like he’s a pizza slice.

 

Ford slams his head against the floor, tears and snot dripping onto the smooth stone below.

 

This is his fault. Every horror Weirdmageddon has wrought would never have come to pass were it not for him.

 

Ford hates himself. He despises himself and everything he’s ever stood for. It wasn’t enough to ruin Fiddleford’s life, was it? He had to go and bring on the apocalypse and get the universe and his __family__  killed.

 

The family he only just reunited with. The family he only just met.

 

He squeezes his fists so tightly his nails draw blood and he _ _screams.__

__

What has he __done?__

__

He’s so _ _stupid.__

__

“I WAS GONNA MAKE YOU WATCH, BUT IT’S PRETTY HILARIOUS TO SEE YOU LIE THERE LIKE A HUMAN INFANT THROWING A TANTRUM,” Bill comments, tearing more flesh from Stan’s body. There are pieces of skin stuck between his yellow teeth.

 

Ford’s scream twists into gasping, uncontrollable sobbing, louder and harder than anything he’d uttered before.

 

“FUNNY,” Bill says. “I’VE NEVER HEARD A HUMAN WAIL LIKE THIS BEFORE! MUCH LESS A GROWN MAN. I THOUGHT ****BOYS DIDN’T CRY**** , FORDSY.”

 

Filbrick Pines’ disapproving stare flashes to mind.

 

But Ford doesn’t care what he looks like, what he’s been reduced to. Dignity and pride are meaningless. He would gain nothing in trying to preserve them.

 

Besides. Bill’s already seen the ugliest, most pathetic corners of his mind.

 

(Those probably constitute __most__  of his mind.)

 

“HEY, REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE GONNA SHOOT ME?” Bill asks, picking his teeth with Stan’s spine, still attached to Stan’s body. “AND YOU TOTALLY BUNGLED IT? GOOD TIMES. YOU’RE LIKE A DEPRESSING PARODY OF AN ACTION HERO. CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT.”

 

Ford no longer has the will to protest.

 

Bill continues munching on Stan. Ford continues to bawl.

 

Finally, nothing remains of Stan but his semi-conscious head, blue in the face and tearstained.

 

Bill grabs Ford by the hair and yanks his head up; Ford is brought face to face with his brother’s decapitated head dangling side to side in front of him, spurting blood from where his neck begins. Ford tries to recoil, but Bill’s firm grip ensures he can’t.

 

“SO REMEMBER WHEN I SAID I’D GIVE HIM BACK TO YOU?” Bill says. “ ** **HERE HE IS.**** ”

 

And with that and a sense of finality, he releases his grip on Stan all at once, dropping him right in front of Ford. Stan’s head thumps to the floor and rolls onto its side.

 

“S...Stanley?” Ford whispers, tentatively reaching out. Bill does not interfere, simply watches, leaving Ford to gently lift the head, scoop it up into his arms, and cradle it close. “Stanley... Stanley... _ _Stanley__ ,” he repeats like a prayer, voice growing increasingly pained.

 

“STANLEY, STANLEY,” Bill mocks. “I THOUGHT THE MAN MEANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD WOULD HAVE A WIDER VOCABULARY THAN THAT.”

 

“Enough of your damned quips,” Ford says in a shuddering voice. “Just _ _go__. There’s nothing more you can __do__  here. Leave us, you accursed demon!”

 

“TEACHER, BILL IS __BULLYING__  ME!” Bill says in a mocking voice.

 

Ford ignores him, focusing on Stan.

 

“Can you hear me...?” Ford asks.

 

“Y-yeah, buddy,” says Stan.

 

Fuck Bill and his sadistic magic.

 

“Are you... are you in pain?” Ford asks, afraid of the answer.

 

“I’ve had... worse,” Stan rasps, forcing a grin and a wink.

 

It’s the most piercing, vicious pain Stan has ever experienced.

 

“Yeah... prob’ly... I mean, Mister Mystery... gets into scrapes... nasty... nasty business, and... ah... What’re we talk—talkin’ about?” Stan asks.

 

Stan can’t think properly. His thoughts veer in every possible direction, breaking apart and slamming into mental walls.

 

“You’re not some f-fucked up nightmare of that triangle’s, r-right?” Stan asks.

 

“No,” says Ford at once. “No, I’m here. I’m here. I’m __real__ , Stanley. As real as gravity and—”

 

“The inevitability of death?” Stan asks, perhaps thinking he’s lightening the mood.

 

Ford doesn’t know what to say to that.

 

“Real... real...” Stan continues. “Kinda hard to tell... what’s real... Be nice if I was dreamin’. If I dream hard enough we’ll be sailin’ on the boat.”

 

Ford chokes back another faucet of tears, eyes stinging. “We’ll sail around the world together. Like you always wanted. I swear.”

 

“Glad you don’t... hate me... anymore,” Stan says, wearing a tired smile.

 

Ford nuzzles his forehead against his brother’s.

 

“...I never hated you. Even when I thought I did. I was angry, certainly. Bitter—deeply bitter, yes — but I... I never forgot the times we spent as children. I wondered, at times, what became of you. I drew... I drew our boat in my journal!” he confesses. “It’s still there in my mindscape, Stanley! My mindscape is the proof that our bond was never fully broken!”

 

Stan thinks back to the broken swing set haunting his own mindscape.

 

Of the meager little boat he named after their dream.

 

“Glad... one of us thought so.”

 

A hot knife of self hatred sears Ford’s heart in half.

 

Some brother he turned out to be.

 

“I HOPE YOU FEEL REAL GOOD ABOUT YOURSELF,” says Bill.

 

“Speak for yourself!” Ford barks.

 

“OH, DON’T WORRY. I FEEL __WONDERFUL__ ,” Bill replies. “NOW THAT I’M DONE WITH YOU TWO, IT’S TIME TO PARTY EVEN ****HARDER****.”

 

Pleading with Bill, trying to reason with him, both are useless. This is it. The end.

 

Everything and everyone is going to die, Ford thinks with a shudder, a frosty chill going down his spine.

 

Including — the kids.

 

“No... No!” Ford whispers to himself. Stan’s tired eyes shut, his expression crestfallen. He knows exactly what Ford is thinking.

 

Bill reaches out and grabs Ford, his whole hand fitting around his torso, and lifts him into the air.

 

“WE’RE GOING FOR A RIDE, GUYS. TIME TO FIND THE KIDS. YOU’RE WORRIED ABOUT THEM, AREN’T YOU?”

 

“Don’ even try,” Stan slurs. “I’ll slug you.”

 

Bill cackles. “HOW? WITH YOUR INVISIBLE ARMS? AHH, I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE HOW MUCH THE KIDS CRY WHEN THEY SEE WHAT I’VE DONE TO THEIR PRECIOUS GRUNKLE STAN. I WONDER IF THEY’LL FORGIVE YOU FOR EATING HIM, ****FORD****.”

 

Ford grinds his teeth and doesn’t reply.

 

“WHICH GIVES ME AN IDEA. I THINK I SHOULD HAVE ONE OF THOSE BRATS EAT THE OTHER __TOO__! WHO’S WITH ME?!”

 

“Bas...tard,” says Stan. “Leave ‘em out of your sick... games...”

 

“BUT WHO SHOULD EAT WHO...?” Bill asks.

 

Cradling Stan with one hand, Ford tries in vain to strike out at Bill. Bill does nothing but laugh at his efforts.

 

“MABEL’S BRAIN’S MADE OF KITTENS AND RAINBOWS, WHILE DIPPER’S NEUROTIC AND PARANOID... EH, I’LL BE BREAKING THE BOTH OF THEM EITHER WAY!”

 

“You leave those children __alone!__ ” Ford exclaims.

 

“THERE’S A REASON I’M KEEPING YOU TWO ALIVE,” says Bill. “AND IT’S SO YOU CAN CRY OVER WHATEVER’S LEFT OF THEIR CORPSES!”

 

“ ** **CIPHER!**** ” Ford screams, his raw voice echoing off the stony walls.

 

And of course, it does nothing to scream at him, to curse his name and all he stands for. There is nothing either of them can do at this point. They are powerless, they know exactly how powerless they are, and they know what that powerlessness is going to cost them: something more valuable than the universe itself.

 

Outside of the Fearamid, a sickly yellow sky envelops the world like a bile-stained blanket.

 

Within his hellish heaven, two poor old men in his grasp, Bill Cipher begins the hunt.


End file.
